Why do I allow myself to be groped and pumped

as if I were a faceless vessel?

to be a sickle that clips at my own wings.

Every time I relapse, it becomes easier

to understand.

Because again, I lay in the bed of a stranger

whose name I just learned.

Always slimy and sticky bedsheets. They reek of sour sweat, and it clings to my skin.

I slept with one, and it was boiling water burning my nape.

I slept with five, and it was broken sharpeners on my plump thighs.

Then, there was no more room to count on my fingertips,

and it was like choking on white tablets with liquor chasers.

And I feel nothing but pity for myself,

as I peel back my clothes in this dark, and abandoned lighting, to the next one.

Reopening a wound that never got to scar.

My body is no longer mine.